His name was Alfred and he was 21 years old, just like me.
He was married with one child, just like me.
Unlike me, though, Alfred was a high school drop-out with no kind, loving parents to see to it that he got a chance for a college education. His father had abandoned the family years ago and his mother died some time after that.
And, unlike me, Alfred would die young from complications stemming from his chronic high blood pressure – well before his 40th birthday. He would leave an estranged wife and four more children.
But I’m getting ahead of my story. On that bright sunny day in April of 1970 dying was the last thing on Alfred’s mind. Or on mine.
Alfred worked for my first husband’s father as a truck driver. He was a solidly built young black man with sparkling eyes, macho mannerisms and a sexy swagger. Alfred knew he had “people appeal.” It’s probably what got him the job in the first place.
Alfred and I were thrown together that spring afternoon by casual circumstances and I didn’t know then that it would be a day indelibly impressed in my memory.
Alfred was driving a truckload of fabric to a store in Daytona Beach, Florida which my husband was preparing to open that week-end. I was tagging along for the ride – planning to join my husband for a week-end of grand opening festivities plus getting in some serious sun bathing and beach combing. I couldn’t wait. And I suppose my excitement was contagious as I rode along beside Alfred in the cab of the truck.
Alfred was dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt. I was dressed in cut-offs and a cotton denim blouse knotted at the waist. There was no air conditioning in the cab and we were sweating profusely. I put my hair up in a ponytail and stripped down to my tube top that was underneath my shirt. We hummed quietly to the music on the radio and continued to complain about the heat.
About 30 miles outside of Tampa, while barreling down an interstate highway that connected Florida’s east and west coast, our truck broke down. Alfred, as mechanically savvy as he was resourceful, couldn’t get the truck to start. As the minutes mounted, he seemed to be sweating more heavily and wiping his brow more often and continuously and nervously glancing around.
After awhile, a “friendly” trucker pulled his rig up behind us on the apron.
“Son,” he called to Alfred after surveying the situation, “you’ve got a big problem here and you need some help.”
I felt Alfred’s terror but I knew not from where it came.
“Hop on in – both of you,” he said generously. “I’ll run you up to the next exit. You know what to do, boy.”
“Yes, sir,” Alfred, nodded dully. “I know what to do.”
I glanced uneasily over at Alfred. He looked grim. Fearful. Subdued. All sign of his sparkle and his swagger were gone.
His head hung slightly forward, suggesting deference. His swagger was looking more like a shuffle.
I sat meekly between both men on the high seat of the cab and as we bumped down the highway, I tried to figure out what was going on. I knew some essential message had been transmitted but what it was I couldn’t figure out.
When we got to the next exit, Alfred jumped down and bee-lined it to the phone booth. I prepared to follow.
“Not so fast, missy,” the trucker admonished. And that’s when I saw the gun.”You best not follow your friend. People down here don’t take to niggers with white women.”
I started to protest. I started to explain the relationship, the circumstances, the truth behind the appearance but blind terror stilled my tongue. I lost my voice.
“Now I don’t know what your situation is, missy,” the big, burly trucker continued, “but if you want your pal to get to where you two are headed in one piece, you best be disappearing. So go check yourself into that motel up there. And don’t you come out til your help comes.”
I did as I was told. And I spent the fading hours of that late afternoon uneasily watching TV and cautiously peering out the window to look at Alfred. Most of the time he sat on the curb of the parking lot, the sun beating down on his uncovered head, looking at the ground, fiddling with a stick.
Towards dusk, another company truck and driver arrived. Alfred and the new guy went back to the immobile truck to transfer the inventory to the new one. My husband picked me up about the same time and together he and I drove to Daytona.
I didn’t see Alfred for many weeks. And when I did, I thought I discerned a hesitancy in his manner toward me – an imperceptible stiffness, an embarrassment bred of shared humiliation and defeat. Our old, easy camaraderie borne of innocence and kindled in a safe, warm environment had dissipated. It was never re-kindled.
After my divorce, I moved away from Tampa. And a few years later, I heard Alfred had died.
That was long before fiery rhetoric and grievance tweeting. Long before George Floyd was yet another fatal victim of excessive force.
A few days ago, a long time friend, Michele, sent out the following:
Hi to all my dear friends and family,
I know how much we all feel the pain and would love to do whatever we can to help repair the systemic racism that all black people are, and have been, living through in our country for the past 400 years
I have a very dear friend, Lyz Riley-Sanders, who is currently in her last year of law school in St. Louis. For many years, Lyz has devoted her life helping undeserved communities in both Denver and St. Louis and really understands the quality and integrity of organizations. Yesterday, I asked her if she would give me the names of her favorite worthy organizations that could use my help.
If/when you are looking for ways to help, please give Lyz’ list some consideration, and feel free to pass it on to others.
http://irisruthpastor.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/Untitled-document.pdf
Sometimes we have to help others preserve their blooms too,
Iris